


Operating System Compatibility Check

by magpiespirit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Character, Awkward Newt, Blasésexual Newt, Confused Anathema, Conversations, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Or At Least Ace Spectrum, Post-Canon, Relationship Negotiation, Sort Of, sensory issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-26 19:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19775101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiespirit/pseuds/magpiespirit
Summary: "Sometimes," she confesses wretchedly, "I wonder if you're bored, or if I've done something wrong, because you touch me and it's wonderful and...andperfunctory.Sometimes I hate Agnes for giving me a name that so perfectly describes the way I feel when we're done, when I'm lying here after you've played me like a flute, and you're not touching me anymore."Agnes Nutter might be a plot point in his life, but she didn't force him to stay inTadfieldwith a woman he hardly understands but dearly loves. Newt always suspected the things that make him different might interfere with any relationships he formed, but he never considered the person who got hurt might not be him.





	Operating System Compatibility Check

**Author's Note:**

> Allo/ace-spectrum relationships and awkwardness and sensory issues and Being In Love.
> 
> Sorry if this is too heavy on the dialogue.

Newton Pulsifer takes great joy in learning Anathema.

Her body is a delicate chart of new constellations, freckles he’s well on his way to memorizing. On the journey to her orgasm her navel is his Polaris, the alpha star that makes her squirm. He presses his thumb to the spatter of freckles on her left hip that looks nothing like Ursa Major but drifts outward in such a pleasant reminiscence of the night they spent in Malibu stargazing with her spinning crystals, and she makes a noise like — well, this is probably not right somehow, but he imagines, sometimes, that Anathema is the only Device he’s ever been able to run his hands over without ruining it. 

He likes exploring her. She always tastes the same, the salt and sweat on her skin mingling with the essential oil concoctions she uses instead of store-bought soaps, the vaguely acidic tang of her vaginal fluid — she smells the same, too. The only thing that changes is her reactions. He finds a new place to touch and evokes a new reaction, a new marvel, a new sound. Sometimes it hurts when she tugs on his hair, or digs her nails into his skin, and sometimes it just hurts when she cries out in orgasm because any noise is loud enough to hurt, but she likes it, and he likes her, and this is what they’re supposed to _do,_ right?

He hears things. He’s behind on gossip — can’t exactly go on the internet — but he _hears things,_ notices things. Cathy from his first job hated that her husband would just get his and fall asleep. Margaret swore off men after the third time one got pushy. Women don’t like not being able to say no, but they often do like sex, and he wants dear, darling Anathema to like how things are, because he does, and he likes her, and — and things. 

He places a line of kisses along the line of her left sartorius. She sighs, soft, and runs her fingertips through his hair. This is a good day.

Out-of-context CSS below her breast with a fingertip, feeling the softness of her against his shoulders when her thighs clench around his clothed torso. (No enter key. She won’t break.) He wishes she could open up a little more, but that’s not how this works. If Anathema is a witch, her magic is in her movement — he thinks this when she writhes as he drags his hand down her abdomen, softly, tapping his fingers in no particular rhythm — or maybe in her voice — he thinks this when she chants his name in that funny way of hers, an off-balance full-bodied vocalization, _Newton Pulsifer,_ while he strokes her labia and suckles at her clitoris — or maybe it’s the other way round. Maybe it’s her magic telling him what to do to elicit the right responses, but either way, he’s glad to be under her spell.

He kneads her vaginal opening with his knuckles, but does not slide his fingers inside. She doesn’t mind it, but in his explorations, he’s noticed that it doesn’t do anything in particular for her, where there are other, more productive things he could do with his hands: he runs them over her smooth, firm thighs, then below her hips, draws up her pelvis to angle his mouth better. Her chest heaves; her voice swells, a chorus, and he licks and nudges and mouths at the tenderest spots of her. Her scent is overpowering, as always, and the way she pulls on his hair reminds him of that film about horses and racing. It makes him feel wanted and used and are those the same thing? Is that good? Is this good? Is he good?

Gently, he sets her down, and assesses things. She’s shaking from her orgasm. He could probably give her another, but he’s tired from holding her, and today’s a good day, but he’s a little raw on the inside, so he pulls away after pressing a firm, open-mouthed kiss to the constellation on her left hip. If he joins her on the pillow and smiles, she’ll take a shower, and then he can follow, just like always. 

Newt likes exploring, but he also likes knowing what to expect. Anathema is perfect, because she is a full-fledged adult with systems in place, known quantities, but she’s still learning who she is and what she wants outside of that business with Agnes Nutter; they’re having a mundane adventure together, and when they want a break, they can do that. Take showers, Anathema first, then Newt. Have tea.

Only on this lazy morning, the sameness drops out from under him when she opens her eyes, rolls over to face him, and bursts into tears.

“Oh,” he says stupidly, trying to remember what you’re supposed to say when someone starts crying for no reason. He knows it’s not _there, there,_ because that never actually helped anybody. “Erm. Anathema.” Probably it’s his fault. Maybe he did sex wrong this time. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she says unconvincingly, quickly rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes as though drying her tears will erase his memory of them.

“Did...I mess something up?”

“No,” she says again. Her mouth quivers along with the word. He wants to stop it, but he doesn’t know how. It’s not like there’s a manual for this; maybe that’s the reason he’s been so lucky up till now. 

“Please,” he says, brushing a sweat-slicked curl away from her eyes with the back of his forefinger, “tell me what I did wrong.”

She blinks furiously. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Sometimes,” she confesses wretchedly, “I wonder if you’re bored, or if I’ve done something wrong, because you touch me and it’s wonderful and...and _perfunctory._ Sometimes I hate Agnes for giving me a name that so perfectly describes the way I feel when we’re done, when I’m lying here after you’ve played me like a flute, and you’re not touching me anymore.”

Agnes Nutter might be a plot point in his life, but she didn’t force him to stay in _Tadfield_ with a woman he hardly understands but dearly loves. Newt always suspected the things that make him different might interfere with any relationships he formed, but he never considered the person who got hurt might not be him.

“I’m sorry. I’m _sorry,”_ he fumbles, desperate to assure her of...well, he’s not sure what, only that it’s not her fault. “It’s not — you see, I. Well. I love you, Anathema. I love looking at you, and listening to you, and, and all of the things you do are enchanting. I love that you keep chocolate in a dish. I love that you dress like an old novel. I love that you wouldn’t meet my mother until you looked at the stars and swung your crystal around a bit. I thought you liked...being pleased. I thought it was enough.”

“That’s just it, I do like it. I just don’t understand why you’ll do that for me and then...we’ve only had intercourse four times, Newt. At first it was okay, I thought you were just shy or worried about getting me pregnant, but then you didn’t want me to suck you off anymore and now…”

“I.” He stops. This is more important than spitting out the first thing that comes to mind, but nothing _is_ coming to mind, so he picks it right up again anyway. “Things are so loud, sometimes.”

“...Loud.”

(This is why he never expected to kiss anyone at all.)

“Imagine being blindfolded in a crowded pub with strangers putting their hands all over you and talking to you very quickly in accents you can’t always understand, and you can’t see any of them, and you can hear their fingers pressing into you and you can taste the words on their breath.”

“O...kay,” she says, obviously confused. It is, at least, a step up from the tears, or so he thinks.

“Well, it’s nothing like that,” he says, “except it’s exactly so, most of the time. All of the times we had...erm...intercourse, we were either in dire situations, or I was stressed out, or on one occasion we were both very drunk, I think. I was, anyway. I could hardly feel a thing aside from your body against mine, it was lovely. _You’re_ lovely. I’m just.” _Wrong,_ he thinks, but traps it behind his lips. He also doesn’t say _I don’t work right._ “At first, I thought I could fix it if I just got _used_ to things, but once I knew I could please you without having to, ah...it’s overwhelming.”

“The day we met, you wanted to do it again,” she points out quietly. 

“I wish you could see your face when you orgasm,” he returns, by way of explanation. It’s not a very good one, judging by her expression. “And hear your voice. I never understood art until that day, but suddenly I got why people want to capture a moment forever. If this is important to you, I can like it, or, I’m willing to do my best even if it’s too much because I like _you,_ but I’d rather, ah. Conditions have to be right? I’m not good at this. I’m sorry, I’m not good at most things. I don’t ever want you to think I don’t _adore_ you, because I do. I just don’t know how to be a person sometimes.”

Her expression darkens. He tenses — goes to draw back, give her space — but she reaches out and puts a gentle, but firm, hand behind his head. An intimate moment passes between them while they lie on their sides facing each other, Anathema entirely naked, Newt entirely clothed, but after what he’s said and the way she’s looking at him, it feels like it’s the other way round. Sternly, she tells him, “Nobody gets to talk about my boyfriend like that, Private Pulsifer. Not even you.”

“I feel like I’m disappointing you,” he half-suggests, wishing even as he says it that his mouth would stop.

“And I feel like I’m disappointing you — like I’m not pretty enough, or not good enough to turn you on. But you say that’s not the truth, and I believe you.” She offers him a small smile while his heart restarts; she believes him. He hasn’t chased her away with his... _him-_ ness. “I don’t get it. And you don’t understand how it feels to have a period, but you still buy me tampons and make me hot water bottles and bring me strawberries with the tops cut off.”

Anathema, _oh,_ Anathema. He moved another way, and she showed him another miracle. He wants to respond in kind. “If you want, _really,_ I can-”

“What I _want_ is for you to tell me what makes _you_ feel good, even if it isn’t...what one would expect.”

“I like making you feel good,” he replies immediately. She looks unimpressed, so he tries to make his face do the genuine thing, but the unfortunate truth of his face is that he looks exactly opposite of that most of the time. Awkward, self-conscious, uncertain, fidgety, all the little traits that make people wonder whether he’s depressed or planning to pick some pockets. “Really, Anathema, I mean it. I love that part. And kissing you, I like that too, most of the time. Some of the time. I admit it’s a bit scary when you’ve got me pinned down, because I can’t get away — not that I ever _want_ to get away — just don’t like to feel trapped. Er. Of course it felt very good to have sex with you when we thought the world was ending, because it made everything quiet. So I feel good when...when things are quiet? When the sheets aren’t fresh, they’ve been on the bed for a couple of days, and it isn’t hot or cold, and I’m not hungry or full, and you’re enjoying yourself. I feel good when you let me lay my head on your chest and you scratch my head, but not too hard, and I can feel you breathe. I feel good when I’m on the edge of being drunk and the whole world is turned down, even my skin. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says after a moment of simply _looking_ at him, “just come and put your head on my chest.”

They probably still need to talk, but now that he knows she won’t leave him over it, maybe he’ll find the right words. Or _any_ words that aren’t interspersed with meaningless sounds and awkward filler. But for now, it’s okay, which is more than he ever expected. He crawls close and takes in the scent of sweat and rose oil and skin salt, and lets the rise and fall of her chest regulate his own breathing. It’s all right if Anathema surprises him, because she’s magic, and her surprises don’t hurt.


End file.
